


dancing with our hands tied

by boleynqueens



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, F/M, Gen, Modern Era, Reality TV, dwts au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: “So to redeem myself from the last reality show I did…I have to doanotherreality show?”+After his dramatic exit from a reality dating show, Henry York is the love-to-hate figure of the year.It's hard to think of a more polarizing persona--  except, maybe, the love-to-hate figure of the competitive dance scene, Anne Ormond.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qiras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qiras/gifts).



> quoting essequamvideri24 since i share the sentiment for this fic and she put it so well:
> 
> 'please don't take this too seriously. writing this is like doodling on scratch paper, just something to stretch my fingers for fun.'

_**You have four new messages.** _

> Hi, sweetie. You haven’t been picking up on your cell so I thought I’d try you here. _Please_ call back, it can be less than a minute, [tearfully] just to let me know you’re okay—I’m worried about you. Love you.

_**Next message:** _

> Hey man—again, so sorry, I had _no_ idea that would happen. I didn’t even think that many people watched that show, it might be the—anyway. If you still want to get blackout drunk, maybe you’d have a more sympathetic experience at like… a gay bar? Just a thought. Let me know if you need anything, though, for real. Peace.

_**Next message:** _

> Hello Mr. York-Tudor, I hope this evening finds you well! I’ve had the ring apprised for you as requested, and luckily have already found a buyer willing to pay what we discussed in our meeting before. If you can call me back just to confirm the address you gave me, I can get a check mailed to you straightaway, and my office number is: 426-746-7465.

_**Next message:** _

> Hi, champ…how you holding up? [pause] Listen, I know all that was rough, but…you need to call your mother back. She’s very worried. And I don’t need to tell you that—

_**Message erased.** _

_**You have no new messages.** _

* * *

Henry opens the door to his apartment, cash in hand, to a woman wearing a dark green dress paired with matching heels, purse, and blazer.

“ _You’re_ not Domino’s, are you?” he asks, flipping the bills like a fan.

“Afraid not. I’m actually—”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No, I’m—”

“Sounds like something a reporter would say,” he deadpans, halving the stack of bills and holding one with an outstretched arm towards her, “there, that’s for you if you get the fuck out."

She pulls something out from the small front pocket of her blazer in turn, a small card that she tucks in under the grip of his thumb.

“That’s the agency I work for, and my name. Our website is on there, and my picture is on it. If you need to verify.”

He reads it, brow furrowed, and walks back into his apartment, leaving the door ajar.

“May I come in?”

“Might as well,” he calls out from his seat on the couch, waiting for his laptop to power up.

The woman closes the door behind her, the points of her heels clicking against the marble floor as she walks over to the living room.

As the website loads, Henry glances over the top of the screen as she takes a pointed swipe at the crumbs atop the cushion on the other side of the L-shaped sofa before taking a seat herself.

To her credit, she manages to survey the rest of the viewable area with an air of detached patience rather than judgement: cattish green eyes sweep over the empty beer bottles and stack of unopened mail on the coffee-table between them but do not linger there, she turns to the paused video on the screen just long enough to read the title in the left hand-corner (‘MARRIAGE PROPOSAL FAIL COMPILATION’) before she turns back to face him, folding manicured hands onto her lap.

“Well,” he says finally, pushing the screen down to the keyboard with both hands, “Jenna Rochford, then?”

“Yes.”

“Right. So, I don’t know how you found where I live—”

“Paparazzi got a picture of you with a plastic bag from 7-11 on the sidewalk outside, and I recognized the street. I used to live in this building, so…followed a hunch, went into the lobby and your name was above the mailboxes with your apartment number.”

“Right. Admire your persistence, but here’s the thing,” Henry says, moving his computer from the velvet pillow on his lap to the cushion next to him, leaning back in his seat and spreading his hands out, “I already have an agent.”

“Oh, I know. I also know that they haven’t managed to get you any auditions since your last…television appearance.”

“And how do you know that?”

“My husband,” Jenna says, raising a ringed left hand like a flag, “is a casting director. He told me.”

Henry gives a bitter laugh, reaching over and clasping the beer he’d abandoned to answer the door.

“I understand you being wary,” she continues, eyebrows raised as the curves of the moon as she watches him drink, “I do, but I already have something lined up for you if you choose to—”

“What,” he snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “an interview? I’ve already turned every offer down, I am _not_ doing that—”

“And you shouldn’t,” she agrees emphatically, clasping her hands together at her chest, “and it actually shows _great_ instinct, to me, that you haven’t. [Before you even consider it, you _have_ to revamp your image.”](https://alicehoffmans.tumblr.com/post/168207724668/briony-larkin-also-consider-strictly-come)

Hot tears gather in the back of his throat, he can feel the warmth close to his ears, but he is… _so, so sick of crying_ , and he’s not about to in front of a stranger, so he swallows them down before clarifying:

“So…you think it’s…fixable?”

It’s not even something he’s dared to hope for since the finale, that anything would fix this besides time—he hadn’t even thought he had need of hope back then; was so certain and in the end had the rug completely pulled out from under his feet.

“Oh, absolutely! I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Look, you had a…diva moment. That’s all. You didn’t use a slur, you didn’t harass or bully anyone or break the law. You’re the new love-to-hate figure, but I can work with that. It’s when people have no opinion on you that I’m stuck. And besides…American viewers _love_ a good redemption arc.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. He excuses himself and she gestures that it’s fine.

Jenna accepts his offer of some of the delivered pizza, and declines the offer of beer—it is, he admits sheepishly, all that is in his fridge, save condiments.

After settling on the couch with respective slices held over paper towels and ice waters set upon the table, Jenna ties her long hair (the color and shine of golden brown sugar) back and kicks off her heels.

It is Henry that steers back to their previous discussion:

“Why me?”

“To represent?” Jenna asks.

He nods.

“I like money,” she says with a wolfish grin, keeping it as she bites and pulls a string of cheese between her teeth.

“And you think I’ll make any?”

“No…I think you’ll make a lot.”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this but…I didn’t make anything on the last show I was on.”

“Trust me: I know all about the last show you were on. I used to be a PA on it. I would never put you in a situation like that again. Although, full disclosure: what I’ve pitched you for _is_ reality--”

Henry groans, tossing his crust and paper towel onto the table before putting his head in his hands.

“No, no I know but listen: it’s not the same. I know what the producers do on that show, and this one is different: there’s no isolation, you’re not living at a mansion that you can’t leave, they’re not lying to you, they’re not starving you out and liquoring you up in the hopes that you cause drama. _You’re_ the talent, and the first episode makes you fifty thousand. It goes up from there the longer you last.”

“So to redeem myself from the last reality show I did…I have to do _another_ reality show?”

“You got it.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his long nose.

“I don’t know…”

“Look, Henry—sorry. Can I call you…?”

He nods, waving a hand.

“Okay. So, Henry, you asked me why I want to represent you. One;” she says, ticking off her index finger, “you said you ‘admired my persistence.’ Well, _I_ admire your resilience. To even put yourself out there for auditions after a public blow like that…most people would just hibernate. Two: I’ve watched your reel. It’s all theatre, true, but there’s some…definite potential there. Three: you’re handsome and charismatic. Four: blue blood runs in your veins.”

“ _Gold_ runs in my veins.”

“Woolf?” she asks, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Well…[gold may run in your blood](https://books.google.com/books?id=Kkd3HK1At1sC&lpg=PA211&ots=vaeJ7QdZz1&dq=gold%20runs%20in%20our%20blood%20woolf&pg=PA211#v=onepage&q=gold%20runs%20in%20our%20blood%20woolf&f=false), but regardless: for now, this is the only kind of show you’re going to be able to get. It’ll open the doors that I know you want open to you right now.”

“And how do I know that?”

“Trust that I have a _plan_ ,” she says, placing both hands over her heart, “to get you there.”

“May I be _privy_ to that?”

“I already have someone in mind to juxtapose you against: someone even more polarizing than you are. _If_ the producers go for it that is; which they’ve been keen to just from me yielding it as a hypothetical.”

“Someone to juxtapose me against…what, a rival?”

“No,” she says, laughing and shaking her head, “no Valois 2.0. Not a rival: a partner. A _dance_ partner.”

“I don’t—"

“You’re not supposed to,” Jenna says, holding a hand out, “the premise is a professional dancer paired with an amateur…C-to-D lister.”

He glowers and she laughs again.

“No way to go but up! Think about it: if you go on this show, it will demonstrate that you can be collaborative. Right now people don’t want to let you in for auditions because they think you’ll be a diva on set. _This_ is how you can prove them wrong.”

* * *

After handing over a portfolio of recommendations from clients, a few sheets of paperwork and a disc of the last season of the dancing show, her parting words at his doorway are:

“You would be in good hands with me. I specialize in diamonds in the rough.”

“There is nothing,” he says, crossing his arms, “rough about me.”

“ _Okay_ , sweetie.”

* * *

He can’t put his finger on why the cadence of the words sounded so familiar to him until much later that night when he watches [the Brady Bunch Movie on cable](http://pixel.nymag.com/imgs/daily/vulture/2015/01/16/surejan.w750.h560.2x.jpg).

* * *

Henry doesn’t open the door to his apartment until the next day.

This time, he is expecting a Chinese food delivery-person, bag in hand. Again, he is surprised:

“Oh, _good_! You’re _not_ dead.”

“Mom—”

“ _Now_ ,” Elizabeth snaps, hefting the strap of a duffel bag over her shoulder and storming inside, hefting it on one of the few clear spots on the floor, “explain to me why I _shouldn’t kick your ass_ —”

“Mom, you didn’t—”

“For making me worry, and driving down all this way just to make sure you’re _alive_ —"

“ _Mom,_ ” he exclaims, putting both hands on her shoulders, “you didn’t actually think I was dead—”

“Well, I don’t _know_ ,” she says, voice strained, peevishly brushing long blonde bangs off her forehead, “you haven’t even updated your Twitter, I can’t _remember_ the last time you haven’t posted daily—”

“How about the last few months, since they don’t let us have our _phones_ with us on the show—”

“No,” she says, shaking her head empathically, “that’s _different_ : I saw you every week and so I _knew_ you were okay.”

“Please tell me,” he says, hands over face, “that you didn’t watch every episode—”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t lie to you.”

“Even the one with the—”

“Yes,” she says, running her fingers through her hair with a pained expression, “even the one with the hot tub.”

Henry looks at the floor with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, craving death.

“We don’t need to talk about it—”

“Yeah, let’s _never_ —”

“How have you been holding up?” she asks, chin tilted upwards and wide cerulean eyes lit with concern, one hand squeezing his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he says, scratching the nape of his neck.

Elizabeth does a scan of the immediate area, turning around in a circle, her long hair spinning like a cape over her shoulders.  

She stills at an empty can of beer on the floor and kicks it over with the heel of her white suede boot before turning back to her son:

“Obviously, you are _not_ fine. In fact, the only reason I haven’t hugged you yet is that…you smell.”

“Thanks!”

“No, seriously— _when_ was the last time you had a shower?”

“I don’t—”

“If you can’t remember,” she says, pushing at the small of his back, “it’s been too long.”

“ _Mom_ , please—”

“It will make you feel better, I promise.”

She shuts the door of the bathroom behind her.

* * *

“I am not a child!” he shouts, childishly, at the closed door.

* * *

When he comes back out a minute later, her hair is tied in a golden knot, her shoes are off, and she is wearing rubber gloves as she places bottles into his recycling bin.

“Why are you not in the shower?”

“I don’t have any clean towels.”

She kneels down to the duffel bag, unzips it, and throws one at his chest:

“I figured as much.”

“Or clean clothes—”

A clear package of brand-new Hanes shirts, a clear package of brand-new boxers, and a pair of sweatpants follow the towel.

* * *

By the time he comes out of the shower and into the living room, both couch and coffee table are cleared.

Henry’s mother sits cross-legged on the couch, the papers that Jenna gave him yesterday in hand.

“What are these?” she asks.

He sits next to her, crossing his legs as well (the sweatpants are loose in the waist and band tightly around his calves, not nearly the required length to cover his coltishly long legs, but _it’s sweet that she tried_ ).

“They’re from someone that wants me to…drop my current agent, and give them a try.”

“Oh? And are you going to?”

“I’m debating…they want me to do another reality show.”

“Not another dating one, right?”

“No.”

“Oh…then I think you should do it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Depression hates activity.”

“I’m not depressed!”

“ _Henry_ —”

“Mom!”

“What’s the show?” she asks brightly, putting the pages down on the coffee table.

The quick pivot-heel-subject-change does not fool him—he knows this doesn’t mean she’s let go, but he resigns himself to the fact that he’ll cross that bridge when it comes:

“I don’t remember the name—it’s in the DVD player from this morning, though, I can start it up…”

* * *

“I _love_ this show!” she gasps as the title sequence begins.

“You do?”

“Yes, and I think you’ll do well—you always were a great dancer.”

“ _What_?” he asks skeptically, then says, definitively, “I’m pretty sure I was _not_.”

“You _wer_ e! Don’t you remember,” she motions what looks like an imitation of a basketball toss, “[throwing the jacket](http://feuillesmortes.tumblr.com/search/razzle-dazzle)?”

He looks at her blankly.

“At the anniversary party—when ‘Africa’ came on? No? I’ll have to show you the video later.”

* * *

“Are you writing _notes_?”

“Yes! Hush,” she says, pen in hand.

They’ve since settled in to watch the taped episode with a bowl of popcorn (she brought a box of the microwavable kind in her bag) and sodas (that she also brought) over ice.

“Why?”

“I’m brainstorming outfits you could wear for the routines!”

“I don’t think we get to pick the outfits…”

“Well, you can give them _ideas_ …”

“Not like I got to on the…other one.”

He falls silent, jaw stiff, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing his gaze to the screen.

“Do you need a hug?” she asks, carefully.

“ _No_.”

“Do you _want_ a hug?” she phrases, differently.

He nods and she envelopes him in her arms. It is instantly soothing to him, the familiar smell of his childhood: La Mer cream and candied violets.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she whispers.

“It’s just,” he says, pulling away and wiping under his eyes, “embarrassing, that’s all.”

“ _Hey._..there is nothing embarrassing,” she says fiercely, reaching out to wipe a missed tear with her own thumb, “about looking for love, alright? Nothing.”

“I think you’re the only that thinks so.”

“Maybe so, but…I am still right. And _she_ is the one who should be embarrassed,” Elizabeth says protectively, “if anyone.”

“How so?”

“You are clearly handsomer than the one she chose—”

“Mm, you _might_ be biased—”

“I am not! All the book club ladies said so as well—”

“Well, they _would_ , to _you_.”

“True, but there are [some blogs that said the same](https://alicehoffmans.tumblr.com/search/a-great-deal-handsomer). I will email them to you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Television Production Studio: Next Step Stars**

**Episode 1, Segment 1: Henry York, Intro**

> “I’m Henry York and people know me best from my time on the Bachelorette.”

“Okay, so we only have ten seconds after this to use a clip, or several if we can manage…it’s enough for a piece of conversation between him and Valois, his exit with the Christmas trees, or when he gets on one knee and she tells him to get up…probably not all three, though.”

* * *

**Ventura Ballroom Studio**

The studio where they’re filming the first meeting between Henry and his dance partner is rectangular and flooded with light. Chandeliers drip from the tall ceiling, interspersed between rafters. Sunlight pours through the windows that make up the entire wall of the entrance, as well as the glass doors on the same wall that overlook the street.

Henry has been waiting from his seat, turned away from the keyboard, on a piano bench for his partner to arrive for fifteen minutes and counting.

The crew had seated him parallel to the long and mirrored wall. There is a door that connects to another room and entrance alongside the wall adjacent to him, and it is from that door that she is meant to arrive.

The whole process had felt familiar enough to preclude any anxiety on his part: the call-sheet, arriving on set, makeup and wardrobe, getting mic’ed, and being instructed where to hit his mark. Even on the _Bachelorette_ , none of these things made him feel like a fish out of water, due to his background in theatre, and he had only become more acclimated to being on a television set as the days and nights at the mansion rolled on.

Back then, all that had thrown him off at first was the presence of the cameras. But even that had worn off, as most things do, with time. As such, the cameras in the studio now do not unnerve him in the least.

His partner’s lateness, however, _does_ unnerve him. Part of this stems from being raised by a father whose rigid stance of punctuality verged on dictatorial, and another from the way his imagination spirals when left unstimulated and to its own devices. He can’t help but imagine the worst. _What if_ she’s an avid fan of the Bachelorette and thusly hates him, has just discovered his identity and past and is refusing to show…

At twenty minutes and counting, one of the PA’s walks over to him, apologizing for ‘the other contestant’s’ lateness and asking if there’s anything she can get him. He smiles and politely requests water, hoping that his visage does not betray the true content of his thoughts.

Once the request is fulfilled, Henry sips from it and caps it, placing the plastic bottle with the label torn off atop the keyboard cover.

He decides to channel his nervous energy into something that may distract him from checking the time on his phone, and so begins to play [‘River Flows In You.’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7maJOI3QMu0)

* * *

Forty-five minutes after the time they were supposed to film their meeting (something that would be, producers had assured him, an extremely brief endeavor, ‘ten to fifteen minutes tops’), he hears the creak of the door swinging open.

Henry stops mid-measure of '[Scarborough Fair](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7maJOI3QMu0)' and spins in his seat, hoisting himself up to stand with springing momentum from the heels of his hands:

“Hi there!”

“Hey!”

They meet halfway between the door and piano, he hits the cross of white tape on the black floor for his mark, hands extended, as she approaches for a hug (months ago he learned that in the land of reality television this is the norm for first encounters rather than hand-shaking).

“Anne, right?”               

“Yes!”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, returning the hug carefully (he exceeds her height by ten inches at the very least), hands on her upper back, “I’m Henry.”

“ _Cut_!”

Anne falls back on her heels as soon as he steps out of the hug, crossing her arms and quickly turning her head, deeply brown eyes cutting across the bustle and movement of the crew, equipment, and cameramen like a scythe.

“Do you think we did something wrong?” he quips, smiling.

“Oh…no, I don’t think so,” she says, turning back to face him, twisting both hands around in the ‘okay’ gesture in front of her sternum, “I think we’re probably done for the day, actually—”

“Hey guys!”

The PA that got him a water before waves at them along with another PA, a boy (both of them look not much older than teenagers, both in black hoodies and with walkie-talkies clipped to the belt loops of their jeans), then says:

“We’re just here to take your mic’s off, if that’s alright...”

After both wires and mic’s are detached from their respective shirts, Anne yields the question:

“We were both wondering where the restrooms are, actually?”

He gives Anne what is, he hopes, a sharp and communicative glance (given that he _said no such thing_ … _did he just sign a contract to dance with a pathological liar for months?_ ) as the PA gives them directions (‘out the door on this side, down the hall on your left’) and she returns it with a tightly small, clearly ingenuine smile.

Given that she’d phrased it in such a way that he has not much choice but to go along, he follows behind her out into the hall, vaulted with glass ceilings.

They pass generic paintings of flowers on cream-colored walls, walking side by side, his hands in his pockets.

“Can I ask what—”

“Wait,” she says, picking up her pace, the floaty and gossamer material of her black skirt billowing out behind her, “I need to make sure that…”

She stops in her tracks once they reach the pair of restrooms at the end of the hall, then enters the women’s.

“Hello, is anyone in here?” she calls out.

He stands in the alcove, at a loss of what to do, but he’s only at a loss for a few seconds when she comes back out and swans her way towards him:

“Can you do the same, please?”

“The same…?”

“Check the men’s?”

“Er…why, exactly—”

“Can you please just _hurry_ ,” Anne says, pressing the lips of her wide-set mouth together and pushing a ream of chestnut hair behind her ear. 

Unsure as to why she seems so flustered, and more than a little bit peeved at being spoken to so sharply, Henry nevertheless acquiesces, pushing open the door of the men’s room and checking for feet under the stalls, walking over to the sinks and checking the row of urinals to see if any are occupied.

“Coast’s clear,” he says, stepping back out to the alcove, “now, why are we here—”

“Just a second,” Anne says, peeking out of the alcove and into the hallway, turning her head left and then right like a little kid before crossing the street before returning.

“I wanted to make sure there were no cameras or people around,” she explains, “and now that I know there’s—"

“ _Oh_ , I see…uh, _Anne_ ,” Henry says carefully ( _as gently as he possibly can without actually whispering_ ), templing his hands together and bringing them to his lips, “look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings—”

“ _Good_ ,” she says, _oddly_ emphatic, narrowing her eyes, “I don’t want you to hurt my feelings _eith_ er, but _luckily_ —”

“And I’m flattered, of course, you’re ah, obviously…very pretty.”

Her rosy (and indeed, admittedly pretty) cheeks flood with even more color at this, deepening around the many moles dotting the surface of otherwise incredibly smooth (besides a currently furrowed brow) and clear olive skin.

“But I don’t think we should do anything,” he says, soldiering on and attempting to find the least inoffensive words, “…physical, because that could risk…messing up our onstage chemistry.”

“ _Right_ , so… _you_ think,” she clarifies, one hand over her heart and the other palm-out, lengthy fingers splayed, “that I brought you out here away from cameras to what…have sex with you in this hallway?!”

“Or in the rest—I don’t know, was that _not_ …your intent?”

“ _No._ ”

“Oh…sorry.”

* * *

_This is…beyond belief._

“Does that happen to you _a lot_?” she asks heatedly, a sardonic edge in her voice that she doesn’t bother concealing.

“It’s been known to happen,” Henry says, shrugging.

“I’m sure. Anyways…ah,” she falters, pressing the bridge of her nose with the index and middle of both hands, still so angry that she blanks for a moment ( _deep breath, Anne_ ), “ _no_ , I said we were going to restroom so no one would follow—anyway. People leak things to the press, _that’s_ why I wanted to check the bathrooms.”

He nods, although he still looks as if he’s humoring her, which Anne finds infuriating (as she does being rejected for something she _wasn’t offering_ , but _keep calm and carry on and all that…_ ).

“I wanted to set up a time to meet before our first rehearsal,” she explains, slipping her phone out of her pocket, “away from cameras and ah…paparazzi. I assume you were on T.V., or something?”

“‘T.V. or…something?’”

“I mean, that’s the set-up the show,” she says, pointing to herself, “professional dancer and,” using air-quotes, “a ‘celebrity’. Not one I’m familiar with, in this case, but…”

He glowers and she smiles, taking a perverse sort of delight at getting under his skin, her indifference towards her own ignorance of his identity turns to delight.

“You don’t know who I am?”

“I know your name is Henry.”

* * *

“I see.”

_Might actually be for the best, that, but—_

“But yeah,” Anne says, “I was thinking maybe grabbing coffee somewhere tomorrow, off the Hollywood grid— _not_ a date, just to clarify, since you seem to—"

“ _Obviously_ not a date,” he counters, crossing his arms.

“Obviously.”

“Shall I drop call your phone, then?” he asks, taking his own out his pocket.

She agrees sunnily and recites her phone number, which he calls and hangs up on.

“Great,” he says, slipping it back in his pocket, “text me the address, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

**Residence of Jenna and George Rochford**

“How was your first day on set?” Jenna asks, raising her voice to be heard over the whirring of the dishwasher.

Anne looks up from her spot on the floor on a blanket with a play-mobile over it, where she has been watching her niece, Georgiana, as her sister-in-law makes dinner in the kitchen.

“It was…challenging,” she says, kissing the tiny fist wrapped around her finger, “how did you know it was my first day?”

“Well,” Jenna says, smoothing down the wrinkles in her apron before sitting down on the floor next to her, “I might have had something to do with it.”

 “ _Jenna_!”

“Mama!” Georgiana squawks, and Jenna smiles, leaning forward to tickle her stomach, responding in kind: _Yes, it **is** Mama!_

Jenna picks her daughter up, walking with her carried in her arms to the kitchen.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Anne says, following her in.

“I believe in your dream,” she says, with a shrug (no easy feat with a toddler in one’s arms), “that’s all.”

Anne’s dream (to open a dance school that includes free and reduced classes for youth) has only receded in distance as the years have passed since she graduated from Julliard—being a professional dancer _doesn’t make as much as most people think..._

The prize money from the last competitive dance show Anne entered was her main motivator, but it had not come to fruition. There is an even larger cash prize for _Next Step Stars_ , but given what popular opinion has been of her…appearance on the previous show she was a contestant on, she was stunned to be called for an interview.

Anne leans her back against the countertop, attempting to gather her thoughts and process this news.

“Well, thank you, but _how_ did you manage to—”

“I might…have sold the concept of you in a package deal?”

“Meaning…?”

“I represent your partner.”

* * *

After the arrival of Anne’s brother, George, the bustle of meal preparation commences: the setting of the dinner table, the strapping of Georgiana into her high chair, pasta being served onto plates, wine being poured into three stemless wineglasses.

“ _How_ was it challenging, exactly?” Jenna asks, one elbow towards the table, her body angled towards Anne.

“How was _what_ challenging?” George asks, attempting to airplane a spoonful of pureed food into Georgiana’s mouth (her verdict is a firm shake of the head).

“If you want to be caught up, you have to come home earlier,” Jenna remarks, and Anne laughs.

“A…miscommunication, you could say.”

“Oh, God—he didn’t hit on you, did he? Because I can talk to—”

“ _No_ …actually, he thought _I_ was hitting on _him_.”

George snorts, laughing himself now:

“I bet you _loved_ that.”

“Yeah, not so much,” Anne says, taking a pointed stab at the spaghetti on her plate.

“If I get her to eat this,” George says, now turned in his chair so that he faces Jenna, spinning the spoonful in hand and nodding towards Georgiana, “will you tell me what the f—”

“ _George_!”

“ _Fairytale_ you two are talking about?”

Jenna nods, taking a sip of wine, leaning back in her chair.

George turns back to the high chair.

“It’s really not so bad, my love—see,” he says, putting a dab of the food on his finger and putting it in his mouth, “it’s…oh my God, that’s _disgusting,_ no wonder you’re not—"

“George!”

“No,” he says, getting up from his chair and throwing down his napkin, “it’s unholy, I’m not making _anyone_ eat that, let’s try applesauce instead.”

* * *

The applesauce endeavor is successful, and so Anne and Jenna catch him up.

“ _Wait_ ,” George says, pounding on the table with his hand, an action that Georgiana immediately imitates on her tray, sending a splash of applesauce flying onto Anne’s shirt (she’s unfazed…it wasn’t the first time, and experience has been a good teacher: she changed into an old tie-dye shirt that already has a coffee-stain on it before coming over, and now dabs at the splotch calmly with a napkin), “the _Bachelorette_ guy? The one I liked?”

“You gave me the idea, actually,” Jenna says, “you said you kept getting outvoted when his headshot and resume were in the pile for auditions—”

“ _Yes_ , I’m so glad he’s getting another chance—tell me you watched?” he asks, turning to his sister.

She shakes her head.

“I was the biggest shipper-- #Hanika. They were so cute together, I like, _screamed_ when she dumped him—”

“I _remember_ ,” Jenna says, laughing and taking up her plate.

“‘Hanika’?” Anne asks, walking behind her and taking her own plate to the sink.

“Their ship name,” she explains, rinsing both in the sink, “the Bachelorette last season was Anika Kleves.”

Anne starts to put the leftovers away in containers. She watches George pass them with Georgiana sleepily in his arms, smiling at the endearing image of father and daughter as he puts a finger to his lips.

* * *

After Georgiana is put to bed, all three sit at the table with espresso and dessert.

“Hey,” Jenna points out, waving a spoonful of tiramisu, “at least I got you someone not bad to look at, right?”

“I don’t care what he looks like,” Anne says, sipping from her tiny cup, “so long as I can teach him to dance.”

“You should care! Six feet of muscle is more likely to be able to lift you than five feet and none,” George says.

“I do not care,” Anne insists.

“You’re just mad that he thought you wanted to—”

“I am not _mad_ , I am _annoyed_ —”

“I’m sure he won’t try to do it again, given that you have managed to terrify any man that has dared to give you a second glance sufficiently enough that they do not glance at you at a _third_ time—”

“Children!” (this, from Jenna, which goes ignored, as Anne counters his remark)

“I do not care if I can bounce a quarter off that ass, I only care if he can throw that ass in a circle.”

George chokes on his tiramisu, spitting it into his napkin and laughing so hard that he shakes the table.

“Would you like me to pass that along, then?” Jenna asks, hands folded under her chin.

“No,” Anne says primly, “I would not.”

* * *

> **From: Marie York-Tudor**
> 
> **To: Henry York-Tudor**
> 
> **Sent January 7, 2018, 1:48 AM**
> 
> Mom watching you on the Bachelorette finale: 'Oh no baby…what is you doing??'
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> **Sent 1:50 AM**
> 
> It’s a school night. Go to bed.
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> **Sent 1:51 AM**
> 
> Also…why would you send me this?
> 
> **From: Marie**
> 
> **Sent 1:53 AM**
> 
> uuuuuuuuuuuh….because it happened, and it’s FUNNY?
> 
> **From: Marie**
> 
> **Sent 1:54 AM**
> 
> Too soon??
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> **Sent 1:55 AM**
> 
> Little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the george and jenna rochford means that george took her name upon marriage, btw!!
> 
> thomas ormond (boleyn), probably: what kind of sjw bullshit is this... 
> 
> marie york-tudor = henry's younger sister
> 
> anika kleves = anne of cleves.... yes, the rejection tables have turned!!
> 
> hope you like! <3

**Author's Note:**

> 'dancing with our hands tied' is the song title of a taylor swift song that i thought was too apt not to use! 
> 
> anyone familiar with my writing style/previous works can probably easily guess the identities of those that left voicemails at the beginning of the chapter-- if not, feel free to ask in the comments!
> 
> couldn't resist adding a few historic easter eggs, so: the number given in the voicemail matches part of the name 'hans holbein' and the links i added <3
> 
> will probably add more characters than i tagged later on. 
> 
> i alluded to it but the backstory is basically this: henry went on the bachelorette, made it to the final two contestants, and lost. idenity of the bachelorette to be revealed! something of a reverse twist on history if that's enough of a hint ;-)
> 
> jenna rochford = lady jane parker 
> 
> as for his legal name being 'henry york-tudor'... my theory is that the producers of the fictional bachelorette asked him to shorten the name the show, and thus the stage name became henry york. cleaner, shorter, less syllables etc.
> 
> #demcalves


End file.
